


Where the Bee Sucks

by GloriaMundi



Category: Fire and Hemlock - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: F/M, Older Woman/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 09:54:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17041544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: Beltane, Lammas, Yule: Laurel plays a long game.





	Where the Bee Sucks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Borusa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borusa/gifts).



## Beltane, 1967

Laurel was obliged to attend the wedding of her ward Charles to the plain, malleable girl she had selected for him. She was not, however, obliged to enter the church. Instead she arranged a series of minor hindrances that, regrettably, delayed the car in which she and Morton rode. They arrived at the church gate just in time to see the newly-wed couple, bespeckled with confetti, emerging from the gloomy interior.

Laurel made their apologies, light and sweet and insincere -- "Such awful traffic in town, and then we were stuck behind a tractor for simply ages!" -- and kissed Charles' cheek. The bride (Edith? no, Edna) was wearing an Empire-line white dress, and there were white satin flowers in her mousy hair. Morton was frowning at Charles, but managed a smile for the young bride, who looked sick with nerves. She was pregnant already, Laurel could see. A blessing indeed! If the child was male, that would be another life to ward off Morton's demise.

"You've been so kind," Edna said to Laurel. "I know Charles couldn't afford all this," she gestured at the church, the flowers, the photographer. "You must be so proud."

Proud of a young man who gets his girl with child out of wedlock? thought Laurel. Proud of someone whose heart is given elsewhere? "Of course, dear," she said. "I hope the two of you will have a happy and fruitful union."

Edna blushed and giggled, though the roses in her cheeks did not drive out that greenish pallor. "Thank you!" she said. "You mean the world to Charles. Thank you for welcoming me into the family."

"Oh," said Laurel airily, "it's nothing. You'll bring as much to us as we to you."

Charles was talking to his brother by the hired car. The two of them were laughing. Laurel, her blessing given to bride and groom, was free to look. Charles was a handsome enough lad, she supposed: handsome enough that Morton believed him to be Laurel's chosen. But Thomas, ah, Thomas: blond and grey-eyed and growing into those gangling limbs. Already he was nearly as tall as his elder brother. How old was he now? Twelve or thirteen: just on the cusp between childhood and adolescence. Laurel could hardly wait for him to grow up. I will suck you dry, my lad, she promised him silently.

As though he'd heard her thought, he looked up and met her gaze: then, fascinatingly, blushed. Perhaps he was already dreaming of her at night. Laurel hoped very much that he was.

"Laurel," said Morton, laying his hand possessively on her arm. "It's time to go to the reception."

Laurel murmured something, and did not flinch away from his touch. Morton had not aged well. She hoped he had not noticed how she looked at Thomas: at the boy who would become the man, at the man who could -- she was nearly sure -- supplant Morton and take his place at her side.

## Lammas, 1969

They had spent the last fortnight of July that year at Morton's London apartment. Laurel hated London in the summer: she could not breathe, and she yearned for the peace of Hunsdon House. But it had been important to demonstrate to the woman Tatiana that her foolishness had not affected Laurel's reign one whit.

A child, with the queen's consort! What had Tatiana thought to achieve? It was not as though Morton were free to marry, even if Tatiana had not been his cousin on his mother's side. Laurel did not permit her consorts to make such vows to any other woman. All that Tatiana had won was the certainty that she would be one of the next to go: if not in two years' time, then in eleven.

The boy, Sebastian, had stayed at the apartment with them. He had missed his mother, and had cried. Laurel thought that he might have been quite endearing, without the tears and snot. He took after Tatiana, with blond hair and blue eyes: he would be pretty when he was older. But he was only four or five years old, and Laurel had been so exhausted by London that she had spent most days resting in her room, away from the noise and fuss of the gathered Court.

Now they were driving back down to Middleton, just Laurel and Morton, in Morton's new green sports car. It was a blazingly hot afternoon, and Laurel was glad of the rushing air around her, even though it stank of petrol and tarmac. When they left the motorway it was better, and she could empty her lungs of traffic fumes and breathe deeply. There was the heavy green scent of trees in summer, and the occasional perfume of dog-roses or corn-stubble. Laurel had loosened the scarf around her hair, and she let it fly away behind them as Morton slowed the car to negotiate the sharp turn towards Middleton.

"The harvest is in already," she said to Morton. "I should like to dance, tonight."

Morton, who did not enjoy dancing, scowled. He was not an especially satisfactory consort. "I'll telephone the family, shall I?"

"Yes, please, dear," said Laurel. "And darling Charles, of course," she added, to see Morton's scowl twist into a sneer.

"The wife, too?"

"Edna?" said Laurel sweetly. "Oh, she'll probably want to stay home to look after the baby."

She left Morton to put the car away and wandered through the house in search of her other ward. She found Thomas sitting in the rose-garden, his nose in a book, bees buzzing around him. He leapt up, beaming, when she said his name, and Laurel smiled back at him.

"We'll have a harvest dance in the field tonight," she said, watching the bees swarm and swirl at her presence. "With a bonfire, and cider, and music. Would you like to join us?"

"Yes please!" said Thomas. It was very hot in the garden, and sweat beaded on his upper lip, amid the sparse blond hairs. He was growing up: mortals grew to adulthood so quickly!Laurel was glad of it. "I'll bring my camera," Thomas went on. "I'd love to take some pictures of you."

Laurel smiled at him affectionately. "I don't photograph well," she said, "but I'm sure your pictures will be lovely."

## Yule, 1971

Laurel and Charles were alone in Laurel's bedroom. There was music coming faintly from below, and the smell of mulled wine drifting through the house. Morton had, on Laurel's instructions, taken Thomas aside to talk to him. "About school," Laurel had said impatiently. "Or his music. Just keep him busy, can't you, Morton dear?"

"Of course," Morton had said. Then, watching to see her reaction, "He's turning into quite the handsome fellow, don't you think? I'll enjoy keeping him ... busy."

Laurel had laughed, as though it was a joke: but Morton had taken such liberties before. "He's too young yet," she said.

Now Laurel had the elder brother to herself. She was perfectly sure that she could agree a suitable bargain with Charles Lynn, as long as neither Morton nor Thomas were party to the conversation. But Charles was being unconscionably slow.

"It's mine to give!" he insisted. "I did the developing and everything!"

Laurel made a moue. "But Tom took the photograph, dear, didn't he?"

"Yes," said Charles. "Back in the summer, when we were all drinking cider and dancing round the bonfire. He said it was a picture of you on your own. You should've seen his face when there weren't any people in the photo at all!"

"I'm sure it was very amusing," said Laurel gravely.

"He kept on at me to try it again, wouldn't stop talking about how you'd been dancing with the rest of 'em, and the firelight glowing in your hair. He --"

Whatever Charles had bitten back had tasted sour. Laurel was willing to wager that it was something to the effect of Thomas being in love with her. Which was, after all, what she was gambling on.

"But if it is truly Tom's picture," she said patiently, "then you can't make a gift of it to me, do you see? And if you can't give me a gift, you'll have to come with me yourself."

"I won't!" said Charles, rather shrilly, and shrank back when she turned her gaze on him.

"Well," said Laurel, "your Leslie is really far too young for me, dear. And Seb isn't much older. I'm afraid I can't wait that long."

"Tom's too young too!" Charles was trying to look away from her, but she would not allow that. "He's still a boy, Laurel! He's all fired up by music and photography! He's got his A levels next year! He can't --"

"Charles," said Laurel, very cold and clear, "you do understand that we need a life? You'll have to offer me something in exchange, if you want me to let you go."

"If it's truly Tom's picture," said Charles slowly, "then it's ... it's a part of him, isn't it? So if I give it to you, I'm giving him to you?"

"It's not as though I'm going to eat him up with a knife and fork," said Laurel, with a little laugh. "I'll make him very happy, Charles. I promise. And if you wanted to make it truly a part of him, maybe you could …. Oh, it sounds silly."

She laughed again, and gestured the thought away: and Charles, as she'd known he would, demanded to know what she'd been about to suggest.

"Just a keepsake," said Laurel, releasing him from her gaze as she looked down coyly. "Something that's truly him. Perhaps ... a lock of his hair."

\- end -

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, this was a twisty one, and what you've just read is not at all what I intended to write! My starting image was Tom mistaking Laurel for Sandy Denny. Well, it was the Sixties ... But on rereading, I found myself interested in what Laurel wanted, and how she went about getting it, and what it might have been like having Morton as one's consort. 
> 
> Anyway: I hope you enjoy this triptych of pagan festivities!
> 
> Thanks to K for beta.


End file.
